


cazimi

by illusorx



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, Hickies, Implied Impending Face Reveal, M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusorx/pseuds/illusorx
Summary: Dream face reveals at the Streamys. George is there for emotional support.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 370





	cazimi

**Author's Note:**

> lets all just pretend that george can get to america w no problem and there are no issues with a live in studio event like this. dont think about it too hard.
> 
> thanks to ryan maia and alastair. i was on the struggle bus trying to get this done so thank u all for pushing me xx

Clay doesn’t know why, exactly, he thought this would be a good idea.

He’s always liked the idea of face revealing at an event, conceptually. But here, now, in the stale air of the greenroom, he does not see the appeal. He’s sitting on the upholstered couch and sweating in his suit. The sound of the show filters through the walls, the muffled voices and music blending together.

There’s a quiet creak from the door as it opens. Clay snaps to attention and sees George, standing in the doorway. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

He’s wearing a suit: a dark blue jacket with a matching tie, and a pristine white shirt. He takes off his jacket and folds over the back of the vanity chair. He takes off his face mask and tucks it into his pocket.

Clay smiles at him, but it's strained. He can feel his heart seizing under his ribs, and his breath is short. His hands might be shaking, but he can’t think straight enough to tell. George moves to stand in front of Clay, his knees bumping up against the soft edge of the couch. Clay looks up at him. George reaches out to hold his hand in place of a greeting.

"How are you feeling?" George asks. Clay's smile becomes more genuine when he hears the familiar way George's mouth smooths out the vowels in his words.

"Fine. Nervous, I guess," he answers, honesty slipping into his tone. "Better now that you're here, though." His pulse hasn’t slowed, but he feels less like his brain is about to melt under the pressure.

Before George, Clay had never been the type of person to be upfront with people about his emotions. He hadn't seen the appeal of it until he felt the catharsis of trusting someone enough to be held by them.

George swings a leg over Clay's lap and straddles him, knees digging into the cushions. Clay lets his hands rest on George’s thighs. The fabric of his slacks stretches tight with the way Geoge has his legs spread across him, but the comforting feeling of closeness is worth any minor annoyance.

George cups Clay’s jaw with both hands and tips his own head down so their foreheads touch. Clay closes his eyes and tries to forget about why he’s here, in this theater, and what he’s here to do. He feels George breathing on top of him, and under his palms, and he tries to let his own breath match his rhythm. His anxiety is threatening to claw its way out of his chest, but the more he focuses on George’s hands on his neck, the easier it becomes to ignore.

“Hey,” George says, hushed, into the space between them. Clay opens his eyes and looks at George’s face.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Clay.” George has this way of looking back at Clay like he can see his bones, see everything about him in the map of his face. His eyes are a gorgeous, complex brown that Clay can never look away from. His gaze is heavy and full of intent.

George’s hands drop from his neck and land on the knot of his tie. He wraps his fingers around the fabric and pulls, loosening it. The collar of Clay’s white dress shirt opens, and George unfastens the top two buttons to expose his neck and the top of his chest. 

George smirks at him before dipping his head down further and bringing his lips to the warm skin of Clay’s collarbone. Clay gasps, quiet and reflexive, at the feeling of contact. 

George’s hand slides back, brushing against the short, freshly cut strands of hair on the back of Clay’s neck. His hair is styled in place with a bit of gel, at the recommendation of Clay’s mother, applied by the studio’s hair and makeup team. It’s dried, now, and there’s an odd crunch to it. George combs his fingers through, loosening the product’s hold on Clay’s hair, and scratching his nails on his scalp.

The room seems quieter, now. The only thing Clay cares about right now is George, on top of him, touching him, and sucking on his neck. He can feel heat rising to his skin, blush forming on his chest up to the tips of his ears. Every so often George scrapes his teeth over his clavicle, and Clay sucks in a breath through his teeth, head tipped back and eyes shut.

The moment is disturbed by a knock on the stage side door. George reacts immediately and with grace, sliding out of Clay’s lap to sit next to him on the couch, a smug smile on his face. Clay freezes in place, the whiplash of the moment dazing him. The door opens with a click, and a member of the show staff pops his head in. He looks between the two of them, sitting on the couch looking disheveled, and blinks. He looks vaguely annoyed.

“Okay. Anyways. Places in two minutes.” He closes the door and disappears.

George turns his head to look at Clay and smiles like he's suppressing a laugh.

“Your hair is a mess,” George says, and his voice is bright.

“Oh? And whose fault is that?”

“Mine, probably. Here, I’ll fix it.” He rises to his feet and extends his hand to Clay, helping him up.

George reaches for the collar of Clay’s shirt refastens the buttons there. He smooths his palms over the wrinkles that have formed in the fabric. Clay watches George's fingers as he re-ties his necktie with deft, efficient movements.

George looks up at Clay’s face, and then at the mess of his hair. He brushes his hands through the front of it, smoothing it down and to the side.

Clay looks _good,_ as always, George thinks. A little windswept if anything, but put together enough. Nothing will get rid of the slight blush in his cheeks or the hickey forming under his collar, though, and George knows that _he_ did that. That’s for the two of them and nobody else. His hand settles on the back of Clay’s head, and he leans up into his space to press their lips together. Clay hums and pushes further, changing the angle, opening his mouth into the kiss, ghosting his hands over George’s hips.

After a moment, George pulls away. “You’ve got somewhere to be, I think.”

Clay’s face scrunches up, and the rock of anxiety falls into his gut again. The vague, oppressive sense of dread.

“I can hear you worrying,” George says. “It’ll be okay. You’re incredible. Everyone is going to love you. They _already_ love you. _I_ love you.” His voice is certain, and leaves no room for argument.

Clay stares down at George, and, not for the first time, wonders what he did in a past life to deserve him. He kisses him again, at a loss for how else to express the warmth he feels. George kisses him back for a moment, understanding and answering. He pulls away, takes a step back but leads Clay towards the door.

“Get out there, you idiot,” he says, fondness apparent. 

Clay laughs. He feels lighter, now. More prepared. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” He raises his hands in mock surrender as he starts to walk towards the door. He turns the handle and pulls, steps through the threshold into the uncertain darkness of the backstage area.

He turns around to look at George again. “Don’t miss me too much.” George waves a hand, shooing him away. Clay closes the door a half second before a stagehand ushers him to where he needs to be.

George leans into the armrest of the couch, keeping his eyes on the presenters on the CCTV as they get ready to welcome Dream to the stage. His feelings about the event are, selfishly, conflicted. The people can have Dream’s face now, George supposes. They’ll never have him the way George has him, warm and pliant and receptive in the dark. They can’t have _Clay_ , not really.

Clay stands restless in the wing, off right of the stage, waiting for his cue. He wipes his sweaty hands on the leg of his pants, and brushes his fingers through his hair in a final attempt to make himself look put together. He hopes he looks okay. Maybe if his tie is straight enough it will distract from the blush that he can still feel lingering on the high points of his face.

He’s scared and nervous, still, but something about the phantom sensation of George’s hand on his cheek keeps him grounded, because he can be so many things for so many people, but he will always be George's.

**Author's Note:**

> join the dream team safe space discord [here](https://discord.gg/eFQYqDqmvF) if you wanna >:)


End file.
